Full Moon, mid-winter, two days after a snowstorm, I walk through our house in the dark

The moon, that old toad palace, has seen it all and tonight
I am seeing the world with moon vision:

from my dark house it is a soft ghost
of all the worlds it has ever been to someone

Looking out at it from their window at night.
I don’t dare turn on a light; then it’s my ghost

that will be visible. Pausing outside my son’s door
I look in—the moon’s light freezes on his floor,

pretends it’s not there until I leave. By a lamp
near our bed, my wife plays guitar while I write,

Years from now, when this house has fallen in and
a squirrel skitters across a branch at this height

it will hear a soft music, some murmured words
and see the moon slide behind a gypsy’s leaf.